Coming True
by DrinkofWater
Summary: Chrissa has a love for all things Disney. But as her first year of college approaches, she's pressured to lay her childhood passion to rest. Everything changes during a final trip to the Magic Kingdom when the park comes to life.
1. The Silhouette

As I looked out the monorail window, I had to remind myself again and again that I wasn't dreaming. Each time I convinced myself that I was, in fact, awake, another wonder outside would send me back to a whimsical stupor. I wasn't in any monorail; it was a Disney monorail, and we had just passed through the Contemporary Resort on our way to the Magic Kingdom. This was a day that I had been craving for years, a day I thought would never come.

My name's Chrissa. It's about time I stopped reminiscing and introduced myself. The full name's Chrissandra, but you can use the nickname. Ever since I was a little girl, I've always been fascinated by adventure. Unfortunately, if you're growing up in a lower-middle class sector of suburban America, adventure isn't always easy to come by. But I made do. I remember cutting up my Mom's old aprons and pretending they were princess gowns. I would romp around the backyard in my royal costume, climbing trees and pretending to be the world's greatest jungle explorer. No one ever had the heart to tell me that princesses don't run around in the Amazon, but I was better for it. No one constrained my imagination, so I let it, quite literally, run wild.

It was around that time that my Uncle Milo first introduced to me to Disney. When my Mom worked long hours, she would drop me off at his house and he would babysit, and by babysit I mean give me the time of my life. We would do everything together. Carnivals. Zoos. Hide-and-go-seek in the park. My uncle was a freelance writer, so he had plenty of time of time for me, time my mother never really had.

It was on rainy days that the magic happened. We would plop down in front of the TV and he would shove a thick black cassette into the VHS. It was always Disney, so naturally it was always incredible. I saw all the classics, all the romances and adventures. From the first film I was obsessed. My aprons were no longer just princess costumes, they were Cinderella's dress and Belle's ball gown. My backyard became Neverland, 100 Acre Woods, Pocahontas' camp, and any other world you could imagine.

Uncle Milo was always privy to my passion. When I turned four, he took me to Disney World for the first time. At first, the trips happened almost twice a year. But as time passed, the gaps between visits grew wider and wider, not because I was getting older, but because he was. Milo's health was fading. By the time I was twelve, he had passed away.

This is my first time at Disney since I lost him. The thought had clouded my morning, because as much as I love the parks, the thought of them without Uncle Milo was sobering at best. But as we passed under the Walt Disney World welcome sign, I realized he would have wanted me to be happy. To juice the day for all it's worth. Live it to the fullest. And if not for myself, I would do it for him. So as we left our car and hustled toward the trams, I made it my goal to have the best day of my life.

Hopefully I wouldn't be the only one. Beside me, my brother Evan was napping, head resting comatose against my side. He and my mother were coming along for the trip, and though there was nothing I could do to guarantee her happiness, my brother was another story. As long as I reacted to everything in the park with excitement, he would too. Early on I had a sense that my brother looked up to me, saw me as a leader, almost a parent. Ever since Evan was a toddler, he's copied me without question. I suspected, no, I knew, that the reason we got along so was well my mother's absence. With her busy at work or shut up in her room, there was no attention to compete for.

Today was no different. My mother sat across from us as her deep brown eyes examined the other passengers. I watched her glance uncomfortably at their cheerful faces, then retreat into her own thoughts. I'm sure she was reminding herself why she was here, why she would tolerate an atmosphere she found so excessive and absurd. The answer was my Uncle. Even though he had passed, I still had Milo to thank for the trip. It's a shame Evan was too young when he died to remember him. Mother never exactly told me why, but I suspected she made the effort to save up for today because she knew he would have wanted me to see the parks again. Or maybe it was because he had _asked_ her to, requested it before he died. Whatever the reason, I was in his debt. I said a silent "Thank you" under my breath before rustling Evan's sandy blonde hair. Nap time was over.

The monorail was slowing to a stop and I needed to get my brother moving. It took a bit nudging to wake him, but after the boy remembered where we were, where we were going, I had to chase him out of the car. I caught up with my brother on the platform, wrapped my arm around his shoulders, and pulled him to my side.

"Hey!" he cried in protest, struggling against me. "We need to go!"

"Believe me, I know," I said with a smile. "But we need to wait for Mom. She'll catch up in a second, don't worry."

A second turned out to be a minute or two before we saw mother weaving her way through the crowd toward us. It was obvious she was in no hurry. That's one thing about my Mom, she lives at her own pace: on the road, at home, on the job. I knew there was no point in hurrying her along, so I waited, trying to mask my impatience for Evan's sake.

"There you are! How many times have I told you to not rush ahead? Maybe Evan's young enough to go running around but you have no excuse."

My mother stood by us now, oozing disapproval.

"But Mom," I said tiredly, "Evan rushed out and I had to-"

"I don't need to listen to this. Come on, let's move; we're blocking the way."

I was tempted to remind her, as we walked down from the platform, _why _we weren't moving, but decided to grab Evan's hand instead. His warm palm grounded my thoughts, and with my thoughts, my temper. I'll admit, my fuse is a bit on the short side, but there was no way I would allow anything to set it off today. Evan needed me to optimistic, and Uncle Milo required it. This was Disney, the Happiest Place on Earth. My mother could decide to be unhappy here, but I could decide not to be.

As we rounded the bend by the docks and headed for the turnstiles, I lifted my head to the sight before me and realized the alternative was impossible. There was no way on Earth I was going to be unhappy, even if I tried. The colorful gardens in the shape of Mickey crowned by a grand brick train station shining in the sun wouldn't allow it. Neither would I.

Our small party passed through the turnstiles, through security, and through the tunnels below the train tracks. As we walked through the latter, my Mother made a beeline to the park maps and grabbed not one, but three, back-up in case the first two ended up wet or lost. It was a smart move, but unnecessary. Even though I had only been the Magic Kingdom a handful of times, the park made a powerful impression on me and I knew it by heart. And before I was an expert, my Uncle was, so not once had I walked through a Disney park with maps. The thought of needing them was so ridiculous, I failed to stifle a laugh. Mom turned toward me with a furrowed brow, frowning at a joke she didn't see or understand. For her sake, I wish my mother had kept staring at me, started to lecture me, do anything but return her gaze to a map. So caught up in studying its maze of details, she missed the most brilliant moment of the day.

At the end of the tunnel, shade gave way to a flood of white light that blinded, just for a moment, before sinking back into the pastels and pavement of Main Street U.S.A. A colorful confection of buildings, decked out in turn-of-the-century moldings, framed a center courtyard where Donald Duck and Goofy had attracted a long line of fans. Evan was dying to join them. He tugged at my hand the moment we entered the park and let out an unintelligible stream of pleading. I reined him in until my mother made clear her desire to find a moment's reprieve in the restrooms. For once, I was almost thankful for her bad attitude. The minute she disappeared, Evan and I made a beeline for Goofy. We made our way past balloon vendors and tourists to his queue and waited, somewhat impatiently, only to have a Disney Cast Member inform us Goofy was taking a break. A break! We couldn't afford a break. My face fell with Evan's not because we had missed Goofy this once, but because we'd missed the chance to escape Mom and see him. Goofy might reappear later in the day, but the chances of him doing so when our mother was gone were slim. She never had a tolerance for character signings and had once gone on a fifteen-minute rant about how it was a waste of time to see a kid in a costume. Thankfully Evan hadn't been there.

Evan! In my thinking I'd briefly forgotten his existence. My brother was still holding my hand, but weakly, his head bent down towards the concrete. He didn't notice as I released his hand and knelled down beside him.

"Hey you," I whispered. Nothing. The boy wasn't in the mood for conversation. I tilted up his chin with my finger and stared into small green eyes that darted to avoid mine.

"It stinks. I know," I said, and as I held his head between my hands, his face compelled me to make a promise I had no guarantee of keeping.

"Listen, you're going to meet him." Evan hadn't been crying, but he wiped his eyes where tears would have been and stared.

"You're going to meet him. I'll make sure of it."

As soon as the words left me, I regretted them. I had no way of making sure my brother would meet his hero. But there was something about his dejected features, the way expectation had faded from his eyes that demanded I say something. As a sister.

Evan let loose a gaping smile and the incident was forgotten. Disappointment, my mother, and my Uncle's absence couldn't compete with the day ahead of us.

Even though time was short, our family managed to go everywhere. We scoured Main Street U.S.A. for the best candy and sidewalk surprises. Adventureland brought us to the depth of the jungle and heart of a pirate's raid. We ventured through Frontierland, singing with Brier Rabbit and the Bear Jamboree. With Liberty Square came a life's (or afterlife's) supply of Presidents and ghosts. In Fantasy Land, we flew with Dumbo, Peter Pan, and Donald Duck in Mickey's Philharmagic, souring above my mother's cynicism. By the time we reached Tomorrowland, Evan was tiring, but rides through space and a speedway were more than enough to jolt him back to life. As we returned to Cinderella's castle, the Sun was setting. I paused, as we crossed the bridge from Tomorrowland, to admire the ribbons of orange and pink in the sky. They were perfect, illuminating the statue of Mickey and Walt as if they were imagineered to be there. Every moment of our walk to the exit is fresh and crisp in my mind. I remember marveling at the sky, watching Evan look over his shoulder at the castle again and again, as if to make sure it hadn't disappeared. I remember walking down Main Street U.S.A. as the windows of the shops glowed with light in the dusk.

Most of all, I remember wishing that I never had to leave. I began to prepare myself for an exit when my mother stopped by the Emporium and turned to me.

"I just remembered. Your grandmother wanted us to bring something back to her, and I'm thinking of getting a snack to keep Evan awake on the ride home."

He needed it. My brother's adrenaline rush from Tomorrowland was wearing off fast and I could tell by his glazed expression that he was only minutes away from hyperactivity and half an hour away from exhaustion. I should have thought of a snack. Sometimes it was embarrassing the way I constantly provided for my brother emotionally, but could forget his most basic needs. My mother was distant and cold, yes, but she got things done.

"So," she continued, "you have two options. You come or wait outside somewhere."

I surprised myself with my answer. "Outside. I'd rather wait out here. Why don't you meet me in the square by the train station…where the characters were earlier? I'll be on one of the benches."

"Fine," she said with a sigh. "Just don't go trying to find us if you get impatient. We'll be out when we're out." With that, my mother took Evan's hand and herded him into the store. I was alone.

I took advantage of the time and space to think things through. Walking toward our planned meeting spot, I wondered why I had rejected the stores so easily. I always loved walking through Main Street U.S.A. and checking out every nook and cranny of the shops. I still did. But something, something strong, had drawn me away from them tonight. When I reached a bench and sat down facing the street and Cinderella's Castle, I realized exactly what that something was. It was longing.

The fact of the matter was, I had been to the Main Street shops that morning and countless times before. Disney never lost its charm for me, but as much I loved them, the stores were nothing new. What was new was the sickening sensation that I would never visit them again. I was eighteen years old and this was the summer between my high school graduation and my first semester of college. If my mother hadn't tolerated my "childish" passion before, she certainly wouldn't entertain my love for Disney as the parent of a college student. To her, I had been too old for the magic for years. She had tolerated my interest for Milo's sake, but it would ignorant to believe that toleration would continue into college. College, in my mother's eyes, was the place for becoming an adult and leaving your childhood behind. Childhood only distracted from securing a job, getting paychecks, and keeping food on the table. According to my mother's philosophy, financial stability and childish interests were incompatible. She had lectured me about how I needed to grow up, how I needed to focus on more "serious pursuits", how this trip to Disney would be my last.

I had decided to wait outside because I wanted to savor the Magic Kingdom. I wanted to drink in this beautiful, breathtaking view of the park at night before I was forced to abandon it. The demand seemed unnecessary to me. I loved Disney and I loved to daydream, but I was far from immature. Because of my efforts, I had the scholarships that made college possible and Evan had a companion to raise and love him. There was no debating that I knew my responsibilities. Besides being unfair, my mother's pressure felt cruel. But there was little I could do about it. Even in college and away from my her house and authority, I knew going to Disney would be a pipe dream. I would never be able to afford a trip without family contributions, and as an adult, it would take years for me to pay back student loans and make enough money for a Disney trip to be possible.

So staring at the castle was my way of saying goodbye. The thought was threatening to depress me before I remembered Uncle Milo, remembered my goal. I was here to have the best day of my life. Now was no exception. With that in mind I made every effort to savor the castle, the street, the buildings and the windows and the square. I tried to take in everything with as much joy as I could muster. It was then, as I clung desperately to Disney and all it meant to me, that I saw the hand.

It was in the window of the firehouse. When I was younger, the firehouse was used as a gift store, but now it was vacant. Rather, it was supposed to be vacant. But there it was, waving down at me, the silhouette of person in the window. At first I thought it was my pathetically desperate imagination. I ignored the figure and attempted to look at something, anything else. But the image was irresistible. After some resistance, my head whipped back toward it and found no one. The figure was gone but the window was still light, as if the person had retreated into the room. I had almost convinced myself that the window had been lit all along and the figure existed only in my imagination, when my eyes reached the firehouse door and all traces of denial shattered.

It was open.


	2. When I Woke Up

A thin slice of light poured from the door and onto the pavement. It was barely noticeable if you weren't paying attention but glaringly conspicuous if you were. I glanced around to see if anyone else was fixated on the firehouse, but all the tourists nearby were either on their way out the gates or making trips to the restroom. It was obvious I was the only one.

It was also obvious that no one was leaving the firehouse anytime soon. Whoever opened the door left it agape for a reason. For me? I considered the thought for a moment, wondering whether the figure in the window was expecting me to follow. No. That was ridiculous. If someone was waiting up there, they could be waiting for anyone. A cast member most likely. After all, the assumption that I, in a crowd of hundreds, was the intended recipient of a wave was pathetic to begin with.

I turned away from the firehouse. As I sat on the bench, watching guests bustle in the square, I firmly decided to ignore it. My mind rejected every notion of mysterious figures or beckoning doors and contented itself with people watching. Anything was preferable to my worrying, desperate, unforgivingly absurd considerations. There had been no invitation tonight. None.

It was then, as my rationale began to resemble Mother's, that something snapped inside of me. I calmly stood up, looked to my left, and began walking toward the firehouse as if hypnotized. But I wasn't in a trance. The movement felt as natural as breathing. I was fully awake, fully alive, fully conscious of what I was doing as my feet approached the small wooden door. It was years before I realized why. Looking back, I've always had trouble understanding what made me leave logic behind and follow the light. Now I realize it's simple. Everything changed in the face of a single remembered fact: I was in Disney. Disney was a place where anything could happen, a place I didn't expect to revisit for decades. I knew that if this was going to be the best day of my life, there was no room for regrets. I could investigate now or spend years wishing I had.

The choice was more than clear; it was unquestionable.

When I stood just inches from the doorway, I scanned my surroundings and waited for a moment when no one was watching. When it came, I gave small good-bye to Main Street with a backhanded wave, took a deep breath, and stepped into the light.

I'm not sure what I expected to find. An empty shop or a character changing room. Even some overlooked event might have made sense. But not this.

It was a hallway. It was a warm, traditionally decorated hallway that was wrapped in green wallpaper and ended in a staircase. I instantly felt like an intruder. Instinctively, I wiped my feet on the welcome mat and looked around. On my right was coat hanger standing sentinel by an open closet. It was draped with a long brown coat and derby hat. Quietly I wondered if I was about to meet their owner.

On my left were two doors, but I never thought to investigate what was behind them. The light and laughter, children's laughter, pouring from the top of the staircase demanded my attention. They came from another door on the left wall, an open one on the second floor that seemed to invite me in, so I made my way up the stairs toward it. On the top step I paused, remembering my time was short. I had to act fast before my mother and Evan finished shopping. Fortunately that type of thing typically took my mother forever, but at this point I probably had about five minutes to spare. There was no time for hesitation.

I walked into a rectangular room and found myself, of all things, in a children's bedroom. It was full of antique furniture that looked as if they were crafted yesterday. The walls were a warm shade of peach and I noticed two sets of windows, one on the back wall and another facing the street, where someone must have waved. On the floor was a circle of children laying on their bellies, playing a game with cards I didn't recognize. It took a moment for them to notice me, but when they did, the room fell silent. Their laughter and small talk gave way to shy stares until one of them, a small boy around Evan's age with bright red hair, crossed the room and offered his hand.

"I'm Flynn," he said with a tone of unwavering confidence that could only belong to a leader. "We were hoping you'd come. You looked so bored out there, all alone."

I nodded, having no idea how to respond, and shook his hand.

"Well, are you going to play with us or what?" He watched me with expectant eyes, waiting.

"I…sure, sure I'll play," I replied unthinkingly. A few cheers broke out from the group. Flynn's boldness must have calmed them down. They didn't look shy anymore.

The boy was delighted. He ordered his friends to clear a spot on the carpet and urged me to sit down. Cards were dealt, and in a hurried voice he explained to me the rules of the game.

"It's simple, really," Flynn began. Somehow I doubted that. "The game's all about taking chances. We all get three cards, and each card has a different animal on it. The idea is to get a matching set of three of the same animal. If you do, you win. We take turns, and when it's your turn, you have to tell a riddle about one of the animals in your hand; then you can chose to ask someone else if they have an animal you want. If they have it, they have to give it to you and pick up another card."

"Like go-fish?" I interrupted.

"Sort of," replied a child to Flynn's right, a tiny girl with blonde hair and big green eyes. "But if you're wrong, you have to get up and act like one of your animals. It gives the rest of us another hint. As everyone takes their turn, you need to try to remember what everyone says and guess what's in their hand. That way, you know who to trade with when the turn comes back to you."

"But there's a catch," said Flynn, with a mischievous grin that probably won him a lot of fans, even at his age. The blonde girl was watching him with obvious admiration. "There's only five animals: the dog, the horse, the mouse, the cow and the duck. Since there's so few animals, and we all know what they are, you have to be careful when you're giving hints so you don't give yourself away. It also means that a lot of people could be trying to make a set of the same animal at the same time. There's not that many cards, so one bad trade can set you back. Get it?"

I did. Or at least, I thought I did. But as we began to play, I discovered the game was far from child's play. It was sophisticated. Each turn, not only did you have to tell a riddle (and riddles weren't exactly my area of expertise), you also had to decipher, remember, and use your opponents' riddles against them. The kids may have been Evan's age, but I felt out of their league. They amazed me, the way most of them could play with ease the way other children played tag. They must have been doing this from an early age. There was no other explanation.

By the time my third turn came around, I had given up altogether. Sure the game was fun, fascinating, and sometimes hilarious when one of us had to stand up and act, but I had no hope of mastering it in a night. I was exhausted. The thrill of spending a day at Disney had helped my body forget the twelve-hour shift I worked the night before. Now it was coming back. I caught my eyes drooping once or twice and tried to keep awake. But it was too late. Sitting on the warm carpet this late at night had triggered fatigue and I was too worn from an emotional day to fight it. As my vision began to blur and thoughts wander, I have a hazy memory of cards dropping from my hands.

Then everything went dark.

My eyes opened to tiny dusk flakes caught in the morning light of a window, slowly floating above my head. I toyed with them like balloons, sending light bursts of breath to keep them afloat. The bed was relaxing, irresistibly cozy as I lied there half awake, appreciating the warm light on my skin and juggling the dust. My mind began its morning stretches along with my body and sent me flashes of things. Park maps. A little boy's hand. The cold armrest of a bench. All these things crossed my thoughts and assembled themselves into a memory of yesterday. Disney, yes, that's what I did. I'd gone with my mother and brother as a graduation gift. After that I…

I had no memory of going home. There were flashes of a firehouse, of a card game with children, but they had to be a dream. It didn't make sense, but yet, I found no other memories to replace them with. No memory of riding a boat or monorail back. No car ride home. No tucking Evan in and reading a book before I too fell asleep. Nothing. My last memory was playing cards, drifting off, and then I was here.

Panic began to set in. I sat up abruptly in a double bed I didn't recognize. The wooden frame was painted white to match the rest of the furniture in the room around me, a room too significant, too familiar. When my eyes caught the peach walls reality set in. I had slept in the bedroom from the night before. In the firehouse.

The realization jolted me awake. I sprang up, left the room, and jogged down the staircase, mind reeling. What had I done? My mother and Evan had to be terrified, panicing about my whereabouts. Had I been trapped? Drugged? A thousand possibilities crossed my mind but none of them made sense. At the bottom of the stairs, I pressed my ears to a door I ignored the night before and listened for voices. No one was speaking on the other side, but I could just make out the sound of a woman humming. Because the humming was cheerful, because it didn't _sound_ like the tune of a kidnapper ax-murderer, I decided to take my chances and demand to know what happened.

But the moment I, rather dramatically, shoved the door open and stepped inside, all my plans melted at the sight before me. I had walked into a kitchen that looked straight out of the early twentieth century. A hefty iron stove dominated the back wall. On it sat a steaming pot that must have been the source of the room's delicious smell. It was flanked by two wooden cupboards filled with cutlery. Beside one a woman was sweeping, directing spilled flour away from the simple dining table that sat in the middle of the room. A great dane puppy had been sleeping beneath it and was now at full attention, barking to expose me.

In a fit of nervousness, I whipped around to leave the room. It was too late.

"Thank goodness!" trilled a voice so musical it could have belonged to a bird. "I was wondering when you'd be up."

Her address forced me to turn around. I coughed and tried absurdly to smooth my skinny jeans, lost at how to overcome the awkwardness of my attempted escape. But the woman didn't seem to mind. She looked about forty years old, but beneath the wrinkles that were starting to crawl across her face, there was no doubt she was beautiful. Big, innocent eyes. Wild, curly blonde hair. A smile that could cause a traffic jam. Over a simple brown frock she wore an apron coated in flour from years of cooking. I never guessed she was cooking for me.

"Sit down, sit down" she said with polite urgency, directing me to a seat at the table with her hand. Shyly I obeyed and had begun to cross the room when the dog directed a low growl in my direction. I had been wrong in calling it a puppy. The dog was more of an adolescent, a gangly, lanky adolescent with disproportionately large ears, an angular head, and long legs that ended in chunky little paws. I never knew dogs could have awkward stages.

"Shh Smoke," hushed the woman as she wagged a stern finger at the pup. "She's no trouble."

The dog let out a whine, as if in disagreement, and left the room. I could still hear his paws scraping on the hallway floor when the woman plopped a warm bowl of oatmeal in front of me.

"I hope you're not afraid of dogs," she said, taking a seat on the other side of the table.

"No. N-Not at all." Mother never allowed us to have a pet, but Uncle Milo had a bull terrier named Fang that I played with all the time as a child. His name was something of a running joke between Uncle and I. Only we knew that Fang was one of the sweetest dogs you could ever meet, but he was great at bluffing the neighbors.

"Good!" She seemed relieved, as if not all of her guests felt so comfortable. "He's a good dog; I'd swear by him. But sometimes, well, he thinks he knows best. Smoke would never hurt a fly though." The woman flashed a smile so genuine I was almost convinced. Almost.

"So," I began, deciding to cut to chase. "So...I was here all night?" It wasn't the most eloquent way to change the subject, but my mind was at a loss to come up with anything that would make the eight-hundred pound gorilla in the room, well, skinnier.

The woman was opening her mouth to speak when I continued. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened last night, what I was thinking."

_Funny_, I thought to myself. _Earlier I burst in to accuse her and now it's raining apologies._

But before I could ramble on, the woman lifted a finger to shush me and pushed the oatmeal bowl closer.

"It's ok. Have something to eat." She laughed and leaned back in her chair to watch me take the first sip. It was delicious. Soft and flavorful and warm. The meal reminded me of Uncle Milo's house, which is to say it tasted like home. As I felt my muscles relax and began to enjoy breakfast, the woman explained everything.

Her name was Katherine McKensie. Mother to Mary McKensie, the blonde girl I met the night before, and husband to Van McKensie, captain of Main Street Firehouse and aspiring inventor. It was him who had found me, asleep sitting straight up and surrounded by a gaggle of clueless children. Unaccustomed to sleeping guests, they were afraid to wake me and had just decided to fetch a parent when Van arrived. By that time it was late, so he sent Mary's friends home and lifted me into her bed. Mary slept with her parents that night. Before I could apologize for this, Mrs. McKensive lifted her hand and gave a reassuring grin. The mother went on to explain how, according to Mary, Floyd had spotted me in the square sitting alone on a bench. He wanted to invite me to play, so he waved from the window and tried to convince Mary to leave the door open for me. Mrs. McKensive regretfully implied that Mary had a bit of a thing for him and was easily persuaded.

The mother gave me a moment to digest the food and words while I ran through the story in my mind. All of it made sense, all but one little word: "alone". I hadn't been alone last night. The opposite was true. With all the crowds coming and going, how could Floyd say I was alone? How could the McKensies believe him?

I toyed with the last of my oatmeal, swirling it around the bottom of the bowl with a spoon. For a moment I considered contradicting the hole in Floyd's story, but thought better of it. There had to be a reason why the boy and Mary's whole family agreed on that point. If I tried to argue, I could come off looking insane (which at this point I wasn't entirely ready to deny) and lose all credibility. I would need credibility later, to cover for myself if the police came asking why I abandoned my family for a theme park.

Theme park.

It came back to me, the reality a warm meal and casual conversation had distracted from. I was in a theme park. But theme parks don't have soft beds and oatmeal. They don't have families with dogs and aprons and stoves. And they certainly don't have firehouses. Working firehouses.

An alarm rang from somewhere on the other side of the kitchen wall and within seconds I heard the pounding of boots, the muffled shouts of men. I must have looked startled because Mrs. McKensie's hand was on my arm.

"It's ok! Just a fire alarm. I should have warned you about that. My husband and his men are probably heading out for a practice drill. They do that every once in a while. I only wish it didn't have to be in the morning."

She withdrew her hand and rested back in her seat, green eyes examining me carefully.

"So what's your name?" I could tell she was trying to be casual, but even her charm couldn't hide the befuddlement fighting to coat her face. Evidently it wasn't normal to be jumpy around alarms.

"I'm Chrissandra. You can call me Chrisa though. Some people even shorten it to Chris." I figured there'd be no hurt in using my real name, whoever these people were. Any lies could be exposed by the police in an instant, if mother had sent them to search for me.

"With a lovely name like that, why would I ever want to call you Chris? Much too lovely. I have pick Chrissandra."

"That's fine. I…" I scrambled to find something to say. When I first came down that morning, there had been so many questions. Where is my family? Is anyone looking from me? Are you Disney employees, or am I being held hostage? Every inquiry from the sensible to the absolute ridiculous had been on my tongue until Mrs. McKensie's story. She had spoken as if this was their home, as if the firehouse could be part of any neighborhood in America. She spoke as if everything were…normal. It wasn't. I realized that if I was going to find my family, it wouldn't be by pleasing delusional people. But I decided to humor Mrs. McKensie in the hope of an exit route, a route out of the house and toward the truth. How hard could it be?

If she could pretend this was real, so could I.

"I'm from out of town. I came here on a trip and well, I never really learned the customs here. Where I'm from, we dress differently. Act differently. Last night I wasn't sure how to handle things. I'm still not sure."

"Hm. Give me a moment." Mrs. McKensie sat quietly, thinking, then flashed me a wide smile before bustling out of the room. When she returned her arms were draped with clothing, face flushed with anticipation. She laid her haul on the back of a chair beside me and gestured to a bathroom adjoining the kitchen.

"I haven't worn these since I had Mary, but I think they'll fit you," she said after a quick scan of my figure. "Try them on! If you're going to be staying in Main Street, you might want to dress the part." It was amazing the way she could make such an offer without sounding insulting. I'm sure my skinny jeans and loose tank were a bit strange, perhaps even scandalous to her, but you never would have known. Mrs. McKensie clearly had a talent for tact.

It wasn't until I was settled in the bathroom, swapping my casual clothes for a pleated plaid skirt, crisp white blouse and maroon stockings, that I realized the full implications of her words. "_If you're going to be staying in Main Street," _Mrs. McKensie had said, as if we were discussing the weather. That wasn't the tone of a woman playing pretend. As I tied a long, floppy bowtie around the collar of my shirt, I began to entertain the possibility that the world I woke to was real.

"I'm not insane," I whispered to my reflection in the mirror. "I'm curious. Curiosity never killed anyone." The moment those words crossed my lips I fought to ignore a certain famous expression and tried, unsuccessfully, to comb my hair with my fingers. _I'm going to play along. And step outside. Find out._ _If this is only a park, I'll go to guest services and find a phone. If not…_

I wasn't prepared for that possibility.

"Chrissandra!" rang a high voice from outside. "Are you finished changing?"

After a few gushing compliments from Mrs. McKensie in the kitchen, she handed me a brown cross-body satchel.

"For you," she said gently. "For making runs around town, you know. I would give you a tour of Main Street, but Mary should be up in an hour or so and I'll have to get her ready, not to mention the rest of the house." Whatever they all needed to be ready for, it obviously didn't involve me. Mrs. McKensie hurried me to the front door, stopping only briefly in the hallway to dig through her apron pockets and fish out a few foreign dollars. She stuffed them into a pocket of my satchel.

"It's no trouble," she said, before I could protest. "You're not from around here; I know you don't have the currency. Buy yourself a little something from the Confectionary or see a show- I don't mind. Just make sure you have enough left over to bring me back a loaf of bread from the bakery. I'll need that to make dinner tonight." She winked. "You're invited."

"But," I began, my confusion mounting.

"But nothing. Listen, I have to get busy and I don't have time for arguments, so let a woman have her say. You're welcome here. You can board with us while you're passing through Main Street. Normally I'd give you the option to decline, but well, I can tell you don't have a place to stay. In this case, I absolutely insist."

At first I thought she was being stern until a wide smile, the smile I was already becoming familiar with, spread across her face good-naturedly and set me at ease. I didn't know how to say thank you, so I sent my inadequate smile back, forgetting. For that short moment, as she and I stood staring in the hallway, my hand wrapped tightly around my satchel, holding onto it like a life raft, the bizarre nature of my predicament faded away. Life felt as simple as a neighbor's kindness. Everything would be ok.

But then she left. Reality resumed when my host returned to the kitchen, leaving me to face the front door. It wasn't cracked open this time. I ran my hand across its smooth surface, tracing tides of wood rings with my fingers before wrapping them around the handle. The knob turned effortlessly, pulling back the door like a curtain to reveal the greatest show I had ever seen.

Main Street had come alive.


	3. A Funny Kind of Comfort

**Finally! A new chapter for Coming True! I know you'll want to jump in, but before you do, there's a few things I need to say about the ****story.**

**First and most importantly, to all of you who have favorited, followed, commented on, and waited for this- THANK YOU. Your support and patience means more than you know. I'm sure most of you thought I'd abandoned this story altogether, and for a while I thought I had too.**

**Words haven't come to me this past few months. At first I told myself that it was because I was busy, because I had too much to do to sit down and write. Of course that wasn't true. It was my boyfriend, Jeff, who woke me up and made me realize my fears, not my schedule, have kept me from my stories. Perfectionism and nothing else. Thanks to him I'm back on my feet, typing and typing and fighting the urge to run from a blank page and edit my writing to shreds. It's not easy. But I know for my story, for Chrissa and Evan and George and anyone who's felt what they feel- it's worth it. **

* * *

><p>I lifted my hand to block the blazing summer sun, and perhaps, to brace myself from the unbelievable image before me. The square was bustling with villagers, all decked out, like Mrs. McKensie, in their turn-of-the-century finest. Bonnets, top haps, and skirts of volcanic proportions brushed by me as I gripped a street pole for balance. My eyes followed a pompous socialite with a well-groomed pup, newsboys shouting on the street corner, and mustached gentleman puffing away on a bench. They struggled to absorbed the sheer size of the square- bigger than I had remembered- and the shining horse-drawn carriages that circled its center, fetching travelers from the train station and carrying them deeper into the park.<p>

Park. But it wasn't a park. There were no PhotoPass Photographers, no disgarded maps littering the ground, and absolutely no trace of Disney shirts, let alone modern dress. No.

_This has to be a show, _I thought. _Some sort of elaborate rehearsal, maybe_? But even as these reassurances loosened my grip on the post, steadied my balance, I knew they were shallow. This was a community, a living, thriving community of which I was now a part. There were two options: join or faint. I was about to surrender to the latter at the sight of three small, eerily familiar dalmation pups across the street when a gentleman gripped my arm.

"Miss?" he asked worriedly, peering into my half-closed eyes with a doctor's invasiveness. "Excuse me Miss, do you know the way to the theatre?"

Grateful for a purpose, I shook the dogs from my mind and turned to face him. The man instantly put me at ease. He was tall, lanky, and adorably awkward, with a physique that almost resembled a flexible version of the post I'd clung to. His face was long and rectangular, crowned with a sizable nose and framed by slick black hair that was brushed to the left and hung there, overlong, as bangs. As affable as these features were, it was his eyes that relaxed me: baby blues that held my gaze. They coaxed a few words from my mouth.

"The theatre?" I could barely keep my balance, let alone give directions. And how would I know where the theatre was? I had never been to Main Street.

Or had I?

As I nervously smoothed my hair, it came to me. What was I thinking? I had been here before. Five times to be exact! Maybe this was a Main Street I had never seen before, but it was Main Street nevertheless. If the firehouse was just behind me, and the square was just ahead, the theatre had to be…

"Down the street to the left!" I replied, eyes wide with surprise at my own resourcefulness. "Yes, that's right."

The man flashed me a wide, ungainly grin. "Thank you Miss! And here I thought you were about to take a mid-day nap! But Mother always told me to look for help in unexpected places. You seemed so serene, why, I woulda thought you knew all life's answers!"

"Serene?" I laughed inside, thankful my helpless shock made such a good impression. "Right. Well, I was waiting for a carriage. You know how the sun can make you, uh, drift off on a hot day."

He cocked his head quizzically for a moment or so, and then, with wide-eyed awareness, collected his composure in a clumsy bow. This was not a man who wanted to offend.

"Of course!" he said apologetically, as if my pathetic excuse had made sense all along. "I often have the feeling. Well, I was going to ask if you'd like to join me at the theatre, but if you have a ride to catch, I'll let you-"

"No!" I yelled, grabbing _his_ arm this time. "No, I mean, it's not important," I continued, more calmly. "All this heat, it's changed my mind. A dark, air-conditioned show sounds perfect."

"Air-conditioned?" If the man was confused before, this had to be complete bewilderment. "I mean, it's cool. Exactly what I need." After the shock and surprise of the morning, it was.

Whenever I wanted cheering up back home and couldn't go to Disney (which was always), movies were the fallback that kept me sane. I tried to spend as much time at the cinema as possible before exam season consumed my time and thoughts. Because money was short and my mother's patience even shorter, I usually couldn't afford a film until it was being phased out of theatres. Evan and I could never join in those excited discussions after the release of a blockbuster, sure, but between that and awkward showing times, we found the silver lining. He and I had a tradition of picking the most bizarre time, say eleven on a Monday morning, grabbing our popcorn and climbing to the highest row of seats in the theatre. From there we crossed our fingers, hoping and praying we'd be alone. Every once in a long, sweet while, the two of us could obnoxiously chat, laugh, and scream without disturbing a soul. It was a simple luxury, but a luxury that meant the world to him and I. Those Mondays mornings and Wednesday afternoons were some of the best memories I'd ever made with Evan. The thought made me miss him, even here.

But there was no time for reminiscing. Before me stood a kind, if somewhat bumbling man with a silly smile and tweed suit who was dying to see a film, and well, how could I say no to that?

"Let's go, uh, erm.." I said suddenly, fishing for a name.

"George!" he replied hastly, obviously embaressed for forgetting another courtesy.

"Chrissa," I said with a smile. We shook hands and, after a moment's pause for a passing carriage, we were off down the lane.

Exploring Main Street with George was like touring a tower with its architect. Seeing the area as a real town would have been enough to absorb, but with him I saw _everything_.

"Here's the Emporium. Madame Opal, she runs the place, says they have the best dress around." He stopped, turned to me and tugged at his suit jacket proudly. "I have to agree."

And I couldn't argue. But before a compliment left my lips, the man was up and running.

"George- just one question."

He spun around to face me, a cheerful "yes?" written all over his face.

"If you know so much, then...well why did you ask me for the theatre?"

The man blushed. "How else could I have gotten you to run around town with me?" He laughed nervously and adjusted his jacket, waiting for approval. A smile from me gave him confidence. "It's not every day I meet a stranger."

And he was off again, sprouting trivia at every Emporium window. Each display was a story, a joke, a memory.

"And that one…ahh Madame just had to order a real palm for the summer window. Someone could have painted the thing, carved it out, anything, but no it _had_ to be real. Turns out she wanted to feel closer to the jungle, closer to some chap she met there as a girl. Always the romantic!" He chuckled and almost tripped as we reached the curb.

The curb. It drew my mind to the present, a pastel-colored, antique present I was still getting used to. Behind me a handful of townsfolk in vests and bonnets waited to cross the road. We were among them, George's hand was intertwined with mine, and before I could catch my bearings the crossing guard gave his signal. He was an obvious volunteer, not a cop, but a clerk who'd given an hour or so to the cause. I noticed a crude badge on his chest as we made our way to the other side.

"Hey, do you know why…" I tried to get George's attention. "Do you know what's going on with the man there? The guard? He doesn't look like a…"

George hadn't heard a word. He was a few feet ahead, dragging me by the hand down the sidewalk and too absorbed in his tour recognize anything else. After calls of "George?" and "Are you listening?" went unanswered, I finally stopped and forced him to a halt. He felt the pull of my hand, swiveled around, and stared at me wide-eyed, as if he'd been woken from a dream.

"George! I mean, I'm sorry; I just need to ask you something." A rush of red flooded his cheeks. Embarassed and somewhat ashamed, George straightened his collar and looked me straight in the eye.

"I'm listening. And I'm sorry. I drift off too often. Old habit." He frowned.

"Don't worry about it. I was just wondering who that man is, watching the road? He doesn't look like a cop."

"He's not."

"You don't have them here?"

"Oh we do." George laughed, back in his old spirits. "But, er, the thing is, there's only a few, two in fact. And those two only handle the little things, like traffic and small scuffles. Other than that, we don't get much crime on Main Street. Unless you count time-wasting." He stretched he mouth in mock fear. "I commit that one sometimes. The cops? Well, normally they cover each others' shifts. Maybe one's sick today. You never know."

He was right. You never know, especially not in worlds you don't understand.

Five minutes later, after passing beautiful storefronts washed in pastels and listening to a novel's worth of local tales, I arrived at the destination. The theatre.

Unlike every other attraction we'd passed, George wasn't interested in a lecture.

"Look!" He pointed to the show times on the awning above. "I'd tell you more but we're almost late! Well we are late." He scratched his head quizzically, as if torn between breaking into story and rushing me inside. Then he burst out, as if I'd asked him, "No, I'm sorry! I really do want to talk but we'll miss the whole picture!" And just then, before George ushered me out of the bright sun into the cool confines of the theatre, I took it all in. Not all of it. I guess that would be completely impossible. But what I mean is that I _saw_. I saw with more than my eyes, maybe with my mind too. Because it was that moment, scanning the street and its colorful array of people, its well-dressed gentlemen and prompt ladies, its laughing children that played on the curb, and the shine the sun made on the carriage windows, that I knew it was real.

Maybe it wasn't real as I knew it, not real as I understood. But it was real. And that was the only thing that mattered.

We entered a theatre dark and filled with the sound of laughter. The focal point: a grand black and white screen where a cartoon mouse was attempting to play the flute. Each time he blew, the sound was shill and exaggerated, so much so that his neighbor stuffed his ears at every note. The neighbor- I'd never seen him before. But the mouse. I'd always known the mouse.

"George! Look it's-"

But just as I was about to prove that yes, I knew something about this strange and lovely little world, I noticed that George was feet in front of me now, standing in the middle of the fourth aisle. In his wake were rows of disgruntled viewers, obviously peeved that he'd dare to block their view. His long arms, silhouetted by the glare of the screen, waved me towards him.

Did I move? The last thing I wanted to do was make a bad impression while I was here, especially in front of a packed house. I looked again.

He was seated, thankfully, but now had turned 360 degrees in his seat to meet my eye. Still waving.

It was tempting to brush him off, but…he was my first friend. One friend versus a crowd of stuffy strangers?

So I made my way to his aisle, and after a few "pardon me"s and "sorry ma'am"s, was seated at his side. In seconds, my face bathed in the projector's light and mind engrossed in the scene, I'd forgotten the embaressment altogether. The film was wonderful.

Mickey and Pluto danced across the screen, leaping over fences and dashing through woods, all to escape the wrath of that troublesome neighbor. Hat askew, the man ran with clumsy white shoes and balloon hands anxious to snag them. Just as the heroes made their way across a raging river, the villain tripped over a log and plunged face-first into the river.

The audience erupted with laughed. I looked beside me to take in their reaction and saw George's cackling face, bowled over in laughter. But after the rest faded, George was still slapping his thighs, still laughing long after the punchline. I could only stare. But even that became uncomfortable, and my eyes shifted to the others around us. Oh they were staring too, but not my wide-eyed, dumbfounded gaze. What I saw was the "is-this-man-serious" staring, the kind that usually leads to "please-leave-the-theatre". Engrossed in the cartoon as it reached its climax, I wasn't about to allow that to happen.

"George," I whispered, trying to get his attention. There was no need. He had already begun to settle down and lean back in his seat. That's when I saw him: a gentleman in a three-piece suit to George's left, leaning over to leer at me. I shrugged, more at his bushy mustache than intimidating scowl. Somehow satisfied, he leaned back and moved on with his life.

You'd think people wouldn't be so particular about distractions while they a watch a cartoon about a man over-reacting to one. _Then again,_ I thought, as Mickey foiled the neighbor and landed safely in Minnie's arms, _you wouldn't expect to find complainers at all. Not in the Happiest Place on Earth. _

As it turns out, this wasn't living, breathing Disney as I'd imagined it to be. Yes it was beautiful, exciting- even mysterious- but this was a world that still had frowns, still had rude people, and, as I discovered with a scratch at my neck- sunburns. There was dimension to the place. I knew that now. I knew it in the man's scowl and in George's nervous bow. I knew it, as we left the theatre, in the darkening sky and the hand of lady, as she rubbed her eye at the corner.

This wasn't a storybook of flawless marionettes. It was an _existence_, a life complete with the whole spectrum of emotions, both the bright and the bad. There was life behind the eyes of the theatre patrons, lives and thoughts and hopes and fears, not clockwork.

In that sense, we were identical.

"Don't you think?"

"What?" I asked, woken from my thoughts with George's smile it my face. It faded when he realized I hadn't been listening.

"Did you hear? I was saying how the neighbor's house was the best part. The way they showed all the noises in his place, why, he had no right to complain. It made him the villain. Otherwise, we might have felt sorry for him, ya know?"

We were sitting at a table down a side street, watching the sun as it disappeared behind the storefronts. The tables here were petite and green, intricate ironwork that elegantly complimented the flower cart beside them. On the Main Street I remembered, this place would have been a few steps from the theatre. Here it was a block away.

"Oh, absolutely." It was a hurried response, but an honest one. As far as I was concerned, George's view on the cartoon was spot on. Of course, I'd never _consciously_ noticed what he pointed out, not while trying to juggle my off-and-on embarrassment with the film. But they rang true. George may have been a bumbling man, but he wasn't a dull one.

"Sorry I missed that point. I'm just," I scanned the now-tranquil street, searching for words. "I'm just getting used to it here. It's a lot to, to take in."

"You've got to be from a way's off." George promptly pointed up, as if he'd been struck by genius inspiration. "Oh I know! Let me guess…" He sprung to his feet dramatically and stretched out his arms like a ringleader. "You must be from- wait, no, oh no." As fast as he'd risen, George retreated and plopped back on his chair. "No, I shouldn't be so nosy."

I'd never been so relieved to be saved from a harmless question.

"I should probably be letting you get back to, well-"

"The McKensie's." I smiled to calm him.

"McKensie's! That's where you're staying at! You'll be there a while?"

It was a good question. I hadn't even tried to answer it.

"Not leaving anytime soon; I know that."

"Alright, alright…" He rose again, deep in thought. "Maybe I'll stop by sometime. Part Two of the tour?"

"Actually, wait-" I'd just remembered the errand Mrs. McKensie sent me on in the first place. "Does Part One have to be over? I mean, I have to leave too, but, I'm really looking to pick up some bread on the way. Can you show me a good place?"

Seeing as there was no place to buy bread in the park I remembered, something like that really did require a bit of assistance. It dawned on me that I'd need _regular_ things here. Bread. Milk. Socks maybe. Not cotton candy. It would take getting used to.

George scratched his loose black bangs and turned to me. "Well, my family runs the bakery. It's closed right now but..." He smiled. "I think there's something I can do."

He told me to wait, and I did, remembering how I'd been sat on Main Street not long ago, waiting for Evan. Drinking the memories in and preparing to say goodbye. Now I lived them.

After a few minutes, George returned with small package wrapped in brown paper.

"Brought some down from my place." He handed me the loaf and I thanked him. "Speaking of that…change of plans. Part Two of the tour begins at my loft, just above the bakery, eight o'clock tomorrow. Can you make it?"

He smiled nervously, a shy attempt to be sleek and polite at once. I got the message.

"Don't see why not."

We parted and I left for the McKensie's, cradling the loaf in my arms like a life raft. My feet were careful to retrace their steps in a world much larger than they'd remembered, but my mind was elsewhere.

_Chances are, I'm right. __This could be the happiest place, but it's not a perfect one._

Something about that reassured me.


End file.
